


The Perfect Gift

by Celia_and



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Devoted Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Gift Giving, Ice Skating, Married Life, Mild Sexual Content, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:54:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27871858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celia_and/pseuds/Celia_and
Summary: “Rey. You don’t need to buy me a Christmas present.”“Yes I do!” she protests. “Why are you so impossible to shop for?”“Because I have everything I need.”
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 57
Kudos: 477
Collections: Winter Gems 2020





	The Perfect Gift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spicytofuuuu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicytofuuuu/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Идеальный подарок](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28286145) by [Elafira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elafira/pseuds/Elafira)



> For my darling friend Tofu on her birthday, a morsel of Christmas fluff almost as sugar-sweet as she is. ❤️

She’s not subtle about it. Not in the slightest.

“Are there any books you’ve been wanting to read?” “Would you ever want a food processor or something? Hypothetically.” “So, these Baby Yoda long johns seem pretty great, huh?”

“Rey. You don’t need to buy me a Christmas present.”

“Yes I do!” she protests. “Why are you so impossible to shop for?”

“Because I have everything I need.”

“I know,” she huffs. “Don’t rub it in. I’m going to have to resort to cutting holes in your socks so I can buy you new ones.”

“If it makes you happy, go for it, sweetheart.”

“I’m going to get you the perfect Christmas gift, Benjamin Solo, if it’s the last thing I do. Just wait.”

He makes it hard on her. He gets her wonderful gifts, the kind that she didn’t even know she wanted until she unwraps it and then she doesn’t know how she lived without it. He could start buying her socks, and then maybe she wouldn’t feel so much pressure to get him the perfect gift. But he can’t resist making her happy. He can never resist that.

And he means it, truly, every time he says it:

“I have everything I need.”

On December 3rd, they go to the Christmas tree lighting in the town square. He wears his too-big parka so he can unzip it and she can lean back against his chest and he can zip her up inside, and that’s how they watch the tree light up: two bodies in one coat.

She always makes him take their selfies, because his arms are so much longer, and then teases him for his camera angles. “Do you secretly have a nostril kink, babe? Because I’m pretty sure that shot went right up my nose, and hey, no judgment if that’s what you’re into...”

He wraps her up in a bear hug and lifts her feet off the ground and pretends to gobble her ear, and she squeals and relents. When he unzips her to let her free he feels cold for a minute, but then she smiles up at him and kisses him in the soft colored lights, and he’s warm.

On December 10th, they go ice skating. The rink is too crowded, and Ben is pretty sure they found a “Most obnoxious Christmas songs” Spotify playlist to play over the loudspeakers, and the plastic rental skates couldn’t be considered comfortable by any stretch of the imagination. It’s exactly the combination of things that would’ve sent him into an irreversible foul mood a few years ago. He probably would’ve screamed at the rink manager for a solid quarter of an hour, and destroying ice skates wouldn’t have been out of the question.

That was before Rey.

When they take a break she leaves him on a bench with a kiss to his nose and gambols away across the rubber mats to buy them hot chocolate. She lumbers back with two Styrofoam cups topped with off-brand whipped topping and a sprinkle of crushed candy canes. He gulps down the too-sweet concoction because she wants him to, and she giggles at his whipped cream mustache and calls him a good boy and makes him take a selfie of them. She holds her ankle up by her ear “so we know we were ice skating, when we look back at it later.”

“I’m pretty sure I’ll always remember this as the night I had my first whipped cream mustache. I don’t know that your contortion abilities are necessary.”

She slings her legs across his lap, weighed heavy by her skates. “What else will you remember this night for?”

“Hmm. This peppermint flavoring in the hot chocolate is... memorable.”

“Be nice! The boy who made them has a pet iguana named Barry, and he’s starting college next year.”

“The iguana?”

“Yes, Barry, the genius iguana.”

“Well I’ll remember this night for that, then.” He grins. “And for the way we got in the shower together after we got home and, you know, one thing led to another.”

“Oh?” She shimmies wickedly on his lap. “I don’t remember that part.”

She does the next day. That day he grins every time his scalp itches with conditioner residue that didn’t quite get rinsed out all the way.

On December 18th, they go to the botanical gardens to see the Christmas display. She tugs him into the gift shop and tries to get him excited enough about something that she can buy it for him. “Ben! Look at these adorable poinsettia magnets! Wouldn’t they be nice to stick your notes to the fridge?”

“The ones I write on Post-its?”

“An extra layer of security never hurts!”

He slips two of his fingers under the hem of her coat and into the pocket of her jeans. He likes to keep them there, he tells her, for safekeeping. “You know what, you’re right. I desperately need a poinsettia magnet.”

She pouts. “If only that were true.”

“Sweetheart. I promise. You don’t need to get me a present.”

“But how will you know that I love you if you wake up on Christmas morning and there’s nothing under the tree for you?”

“What? Sorry, I stopped listening after ‘I love you.’”

 _“Bennn,”_ she whines.

He kisses her hair. “My darling Christmas wife. I swear to you. I have everything I need.”

He takes their selfie under mistletoe. She doesn’t complain about the angle, probably because she isn’t exactly watching his phone at the time.

On December 21st, they go see The Nutcracker. He always buys front-row seats, because she likes to feel the timpani in her chest and see the dancers’ sweat. They see it every year and she’s just as enraptured every time.

Watching her, he knows the feeling.

They forget to take a picture at intermission, but at home that night he’s flossing his teeth when his phone buzzes by the sink. He looks down to find a selfie she took on the bed, wearing his red flannel pajama top and nothing else.

It’s unbuttoned.

She leaves it on as she bobs on his cock. He lies there and watches her slowly unravel like it’s the very first time and listens to the crescendoing chorus of moans her body composes for him.

Tchaikovsky has absolutely nothing on her.

On Christmas Eve, she’s restless. She hasn’t gotten him a present, he can tell. He puts on White Christmas on Netflix, and it mostly distracts her, but it isn’t until he builds a fire in the fireplace and takes out the graham crackers and marshmallows that she stops fidgeting.

“I wonder how a candy cane would taste in a s’more,” she garbles through a stuffed mouth.

“Probably terrible. Do you want one?”

“Obviously.”

He leans over and grabs one off the tree and watches as she bites the plastic open, and the fire pops softly and Bing Crosby falls in love with Rosemary Clooney. He sits behind her, with his legs on either side of hers, and rubs her back. Because he can. Imagine that.

She starts to drowse against his chest.

“Let’s go to bed, hmm?” he asks.

She shakes her head resolutely. “I need to stay up until midnight so I can be the first one to tell you Merry Christmas.”

He kisses her shoulder. “You can tell me in the morning. I promise I won’t let anyone break in and tell me before you can.” 

“You never know,” she says, but she lets him scoop her up and carry her to bed and climb in after her.

She snuggles into his chest. “I didn’t get you a present,” she confesses to his left pectoral.

“Good.” He strokes her hair.

“’s _not_ good. It’s Christmas.”

“When you wake up, it will be.”

“‘m sleepy.”

“I know.”

“‘m jus’ gonna sleep a little.”

“Okay.”

He stays awake a while longer, long enough to see when the red glow of the bedside clock rearranges itself to spell 12:00.

The drool soaking into his shirt smells like chocolate and candy canes.

What an everlasting Christmas she is, this woman lying on his heart.

There’s only one present underneath their tree that morning, when he makes his mother’s recipe for coffee cake and she scrambles eggs and kisses him and tells him Merry Christmas every five minutes in case he forgot since the last time.

She usually waters the tree, but this morning he makes a point to do it himself after breakfast, so he can go over and exclaim, “What’s this?” and pick up the present.

She rolls her eyes lovingly and reluctantly holds out her hand for him to bring it to her.

He looks down at it and says, “Wait, it’s not for you.”

He reads the label aloud:

“To Ben, from Rey.”

He looks up. “Sweetheart, you shouldn’t have.”

She grins delightedly. “What did you do?”

“Me? This is clearly a present from you. I wonder what it could be.”

“It’s quite a mystery, I’m sure.”

“Maybe I’ll unwrap it and find out.”

She pats the couch beside her. “Maybe you should.” He lets her throw the blanket over his lap too, and he makes a show of unwrapping the package slowly. She rests her head on his shoulder and laughs.

“Is it a book?” he wonders aloud as he pulls the last of the paper off.

“You are the most ridiculous man I’ve ever—”

“No! A photo album!”

She snuggles closer. “I wonder what pictures I put in it.”

“Me too. I can’t wait to find out.” He opens the leather cover.

It’s their New Year’s selfie, the one where his phone for some reason decided to focus on Poe and the cheese tray in the background, leaving the foreground an indistinct blur.

“Hmm, I dunno, babe,” he says. “Not the best quality photo for an album.”

“Hey! I love that picture.”

Ben turns the page, to a truly unflattering selfie from the early February blizzard when they’d bundled up and raced each other to the sledding hill and they both look like laughing marshmallows. “That was an interesting artistic choice, sweetheart, to include this.”

After the next picture, the one when they made homemade pizza on her birthday and Ben still has no idea how shredded cheese got in his hair, she forgets to even tease him. She hugs his arm and lets him show her a year in their life together, page by page. By the time he gets to October and the pumpkin he accidentally cut his finger picking for her because she loved how endearingly lopsided it was, she’s sniffling against his shoulder. “I can’t believe you gave me the only thing I wanted, you carrot.”

He kisses her hand.

The last page doesn’t have a photo. It has an envelope stuck in it instead.

It reads: “To Rey, from Ben.”

He caresses her knee as he hands it to her. She keeps his arm between hers when she wipes her eyes and slides her finger underneath the flap to break the seal.

She pulls out the note inside.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to come visit me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/CeliaAnd2)! 💛


End file.
